


This Love Is Divine, Dear (And Our Foes Can Weep About It)

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Scared Basically, Canon-Typical Discussions of Destruction, Fluff, Holy Water, Like really out of order time skips for the sake of story-telling, Lotta Mushy Feelings Here, M/M, No Spoilers But There's A Question Here, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other, Pining, The BRIEFEST Discussion of Sex, The Canon Is The Author's Playground & No One Is Gonna Stop Me., Time Skips, character studyish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-22 18:37:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: Calling it a sin kinda missed the point. For Aziraphale, loving Crowley was the greatest blessing ever bestowed on him.Now if only their pesky sides weren't in the way.AKA: This Is Why Aziraphale Likes To Go Slow





	This Love Is Divine, Dear (And Our Foes Can Weep About It)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay just to be safe, Aziraphale worries about Crowley's safety vis-a-vis their respective sides as well as his own interest in Holy Water. If that's something you don't wanna read about, totally fair.
> 
> Me, a trans gay Catholic, upon seeing Aziraphale's looks of pure adoration towards Crowley, and his complex emotional issues upon harbouring those feelings as well as the fear of being caught, while I'm immediately taking his name as my middle name: oh KIN
> 
> Anyway, I sorta chewed on the idea of Aziraphale loving Crowley but being unable to show it, and I came out with this. I like to think he never really worried about Falling, personally, but that there's a more complex fear. I like to think he always wanted a "their side" but he never really believed it until a major Crisis of Faith™, you know? Anyway, I love these fucking moronic old men

How else could Aziraphale describe it but holy? 

In all his years as an angel, loving Crowley never registered as worthy of a Fall. Liking him, in the Beginning? Sure. He was initially afraid that the Almighty might take offence, especially when She was more vocal about what She did and did not approve of. But She never smote him, or Fell him, and She was the only being that could. He was never reproached for talking to the demon, and he took that as Her tacit blessing. After all, She was omnipotent and omnipresent; surely, She knew, and surely, if She wished for him to Fall, She would see it through.

Besides, She never Fell him for disobeying Her orders and lying to Her...well, not face, per se, but at least Her beam of inquisitive light and Voice. Giving the sword away was for the greater good, a necessary bit of bad. Loving Crowley, though, that was never bad. 

How could something so wonderful, that filled him with so much joy and wonder and hope, be bad? 

Crowley, despite all his talks of temptations and evils, inspired Aziraphale to be better. And wasn’t that funny? But it was true. He’d been the one to force Aziraphale to consider the true moral weight of the Flood, to think about the Antichrist as a child before a weapon. He’d been the one to make Aziraphale turn his back to Heaven and towards humanity, to work _against_ the Great Plan. 

He made Aziraphale question, and in doing so he made Aziraphale realize that questions weren’t necessarily bad.

Privately, he wondered where the justice in Crowley's Fall was. How could a few questions lead to being banished from Her divine grace? It _must_ have been bad, but then again, he always saw the seeds of good in Crowley. Maybe there was redemption for him, after all. Maybe he did mess up, but he was a good demon. Maybe She would see that goodness and…Unfall him. Maybe they wouldn't have to worry about sides anymore. 

It's only after the Metatron told him that the War, something so vile and petty and unlike what he always believed the Almighty was supposed to stand for, was actually in the cards all along, that Aziraphale realized how backwards he had it. He politely hangs up on the Metatron with a mouth tasting like ash and remorse. Of course. Sides never mattered, because he and Crowley had their own, and they always did. 

They're sitting on a bench when Crowley asked whether he thought She had planned for this all along. 

Aziraphale shrugged. "Could be. Wouldn't put it past Her." 

_Or Her sense of humour_ , he thought bitterly. He let himself think it. She Fell one of the most compassionate beings in the universe, after all. And if that was what made the Almighty good, and Crowley evil, well, then Aziraphale wouldn’t have evil any other way. 

* * *

Angels and demons, however, did cause him to fear expressing that love. 

Deep down, he knew that his love was pure, nourishing, right, and _good_ . But he also knew that there were rules set in place for them both, rules neither of them decided but both had to obey. The mere idea of them getting along, as _acquaintances_ , was enough to warrant a sharp reprimand, perhaps even a transfer. Aziraphale couldn’t stand to imagine spending eternity with another demon, one less compassionate and fascinating. One he’d _actually_ have to thwart instead of playfully bickering then going out to do something far more entertaining. Worse, and he felt quite guilty for this thought in particular, the idea of another angel on Earth with Crowley was too much to bear. 

It didn't matter whether the rules were right: the consequences to disobeying were too great to gamble on. Crowley was too good to lose, even if he’d deny that goodness until he’d turn blue in the face (metaphorically, of course, as air was optional to beings like them. Knowing the old serpent, however, temporarily turning on his lungs in order to make such a point would be adequately dramatic of him). 

Sandalphon had inadvertently confirmed those fears one day in the late 1800s, during one of his reports. He hadn't seen Crowley in quite a while, since the day at the park in fact, but was comforted by the knowledge that he was napping. 

Heaven didn't seem to notice.

He was upstairs for a report. He's not really thinking about Crowley any more than usual, when Sandalphon asked a glaring question. A question that raised the stakes even higher, and made the consequences of being caught so much _worse._

"You know, if you're having difficulty thwarting the demon Crowley, Heaven wouldn't mind a touch of divine smiting," he said.

It was a casual remark. Like the words themselves didn't send a spike of frozen, painful dread down his very essence.

"I...I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale managed after a moment.

"Your good deeds have been noteworthy, Aziraphale," Gabriel cut in. "But what I think Sandalphon here is trying to say is that Crowley's actions on Earth...they're not really necessary for _your_ actions to stick. And if you were to get rid of him, well, none of us would judge you for it."

"It would certainly bring up Heaven's score in the Greater Scheme of things," Uriel added. "Nothing lost when evil goes."

Aziraphale's mouth ran on autopilot, which he appreciated, because his mind was screaming in panic. "I actually think it's rather the opposite. I find that humans do their, their _best_ when they're tempted to do their worst. You'll be surprised, actually, at how necessary that demon is to my plans. In fact, I think that I'd be rather ineffective without him, he tends to hang around the spots with the most, um, evil and it's easier to track. And to make my better blessings stick, that way. Of course," he added, words ash on his tongue, "I'll...I'll take it into consideration, but...no, I don't think smiting is the option we're looking for."

The angels looked at him with mild interest, before shrugging. Aziraphale could feel the panic ebb away. 

"Eh, just as well," Gabriel said. "I think I heard him say something about drinking Holy Water, anyway."

With a racing pulse and a dry mouth, his panic returned in full force. Insurance! Crowley had _lied_ to him, with no hesitation, about his intents on Holy Water! And even if he didn’t, such a cavalier remark about his total obliviation…it stung Aziraphale. It hit him like a punch to the gut, and he thanked the Almighty for the strength to not let himself double over with it.

Still, he felt sick with dread, and it was only the inquisitive eyes of his superiors that kept him from showing it too obviously.

"O-oh?" He said, somehow, with his heart in his throat. "How...fortunate."

"Isn't it just?" Sandalphon said. 

"Yes," Aziraphale had felt something inside him curl up in rage, disgust, dread, at himself for saying such a thing, but if he admitted how he felt...well, Crowley was asleep right now. Hardly in any position to defend himself. And Heaven, in spite of their distance, moved swiftly.

"So, just keep up those good deeds, o Guardian of the Eastern Gate," Gabriel said, with a flourish many bosses would find fashionable in the upcoming twentieth century. "Doing fantastic down there, couldn't ask for a better Principality."

"Yes, I...thanks, thank you. I'll be off now," Aziraphale said. 

His first stop was just outside of Crowley's flat. He didn't knock, only staying long enough to feel his presence, then to collapse, in relief, against the door. 

His next stop was his own flat, which grew like a flower above the previously one-floored bookshop. (1) He paced restlessly, mind spinning.

Heaven considered Crowley a threat enough to be smite-worthy, despite his enduring nap. Aziraphale, along with humanity's own depravity, was covering his deeds for him, so Hell wouldn't get suspicious. He was in a bind: stop and Hell would send a representative up, and continue and risk Heaven sending one down.

And that wasn't even taking into consideration the business with the holy water! Every time Aziraphale tried to repeat Crowley's words about sending a report to keep their bosses happy and off their backs, he was reminded that _Crowley said he would drink Holy Water!_ He felt like waking the damned demon up and demanding an explanation, but that would lead to a conversation that he wasn't prepared to have, as proven by Heaven literally suggesting that he smite him! 

Aziraphale stopped, feeling dizzy beyond just pacing. If Heaven found out. Oh, Lord, if Heaven found out, he'd be doomed. There was no wanting for Holy Water in Heaven, no lacking of divine retribution. He had to sit down, forced himself to dispel the thoughts of Crowley beyond discorporation, beyond murdered. Gone, torn from the universe, never to return.

 _Think rationally, Aziraphale_ , he thought sharply, and he did his best to. No angel, save him, spent more time on Earth than strictly necessary. He had done plenty of temptations, and none were commented on, which was good. Well, not _good_ good, but good because Heaven was very clear on what it did and did not approve of. Him using too many miracles for _Heaven’s own sake_ was a point of contention! So, by that logic, Heaven wouldn't really think it necessary to check in on whether he was actually foiling Crowley's plans, or the exact nature of their relationship, and therefore would find no reason to harm the demon.

Logic, however, didn't dispel the choking sense of foreboding at their comment on Holy Water. For that, no amount of overthinking could help him, and Aziraphale decided to just ignore it until the demon brought it back up again. If he ever did, after all, or even decided to talk to Aziraphale again. With a heavy heart, he remembered how the demon had "plenty of other people to fraternize with," and the angel wondered briefly if he jeopardized the most important relationship he ever had.

"Excepting _You_ , of course, my Lord," he added out loud, hastily, flushing with regret at his own treacherous thoughts. This is why he preferred to leave those feelings alone. 

He sighed. He needed company. He left his empty flat and wandered the streets of Soho, looking for a distraction.

He eventually found one in the form of a discreet gentleman's club.

(1) It was the size of a tiny boutique when originally bought, then grew to encompass the entire corner and several stories up. No one really commented on how Mr. Fell's bookshop seemed to expand with no discernible construction over the years. It wasn't the weirdest thing about him, after all.

* * *

It's 1941 when he finally allows those feelings to surface again. Or, rather, Crowley showed up and dragged them all the surface, like the Kraken at the end of the world. 

Normally, he wouldn't compare the love of his existence to the feeling of seeing an omen of the apocalypse, but he _had_ just mentioned the Holy Water.

Aziraphale wanted to glare at him as Crowley mused to himself about just how _available_ it was, unguarded and open to all. He couldn’t find it in him, though; not when the thought of Crowley hopping in to save him gave him the most pleasant sensation of butterflies in his stomach. (2)

Then again, _Holy Water_! 

Thankfully, he blew up the church before he approached the font (and it took an extra miracle on Aziraphale's part to have the water splash harmlessly into the sewer several yards away) (3) but Aziraphale could still see the wheels turning in his eyes. 

It was only a matter of time before Crowley tried something recklessly stupid to obtain that water, and Aziraphale kept an ear to the ground. It must have been fortuitous intervention by a Higher Power that he planned his heist right in Aziraphale's own backyard. (4)

So he was _that_ dedicated to it? A terrible thought crossed his mind, of Heaven sending a sign to a particularly devout criminal to just flick a little in just the right place at the stylishly dressed redheaded ringleader. Or Hell, should they catch on that Crowley was shirking some of the more unpleasant aspects of demonhood. He banished those thoughts, reasoning that neither were all that subtle.

Still, even without their bosses, it was risky. 

He made up his mind.

Aziraphale enjoyed the proximity of their hands and their Earthly forms in the cozy and comfortably dark Bentley. Crowley was ringed in the neon lights of Soho, the flyaway strands of hair glowing like a halo, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare. He had seen halos of course -- not Crowley’s, or at least it was so far back he doesn’t remember if he did -- but this one was bright without feeling overbearingly so. Warm without the burning heat of divine fire. Entrancing without the polite but necessary request to not be afraid. He was so beautiful, and so good, and so wonderfully unique to this planet full of unique, interesting things and people. It was nearly enough to make him throw away the thermos and demand that they forget that Holy Water even existed.

But if Aziraphale didn’t do this, Crowley would. Crowley didn’t have the luxury of being able to handle a little moisture. 

He’d only hope that Crowley would accept his explanation without too many questions, as he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist spilling his heart out, and all his secret fears.

"Don't go unscrewing the cap," he added, giving him an imploring look. _And for that matter, don't use it._ Don't use it _. For all that's good, for all you mean to me, and for whatever I'm worth to you, please, don't_ ever _use it._

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked, something flitting across his face, and Aziraphale damned his glasses for covering whatever was in his eyes. 

Then again, not being privy to that vulnerable side of Crowley might have made this entire venture more bearable. 

“Better not,” he said. _Thank me by not using it. Please. Whatever Heaven or Hell sends your way, there has to be a better solution than_ this.

“Can I drop you anywhere?” he offered instead, insistent. Like he heard Aziraphale’s pleading thoughts and decided to offer a counter-point. 

It hurt to leave Crowley behind, and hurt even more to see the look on his face at the denial of a lift (Aziraphale didn't even need to see his eyes -- he _knew_ the demon well enough) but it was necessary. It was already painful enough to give the demon the most dangerous weapon in all the universe.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley," he said, and hoped the unspoken 'give me time to catch up' was picked up. 

(2) Or, at least, where he thought his stomach should be: despite humans being the big kickoff for angels and demons, each side knew blessed little about their physiology. As a result, human corporations would make for an interesting, albeit disconcerting, autopsy. Many are missing their intestines altogether, calling it a waste of space. Angels are known to skip the pancreas in their human disguises, for no real reason besides not really wanting it.

(3) He'd only realized later that he sent a Holy substance down to mingle with London's waste-water. The alarm he felt at that thought, though, wasn't anything near that from the thought of Crowley reaching in to get a flask-full. Maybe it was blasphemy, but it was well worth it.

(4) That, or Crowley, deep down, so deep in his frustration at his own feelings, wanted Aziraphale to come help him out.

* * *

He had prayed, that night, that Crowley would decide to stick around and give him time. He also hoped, some nights, that Crowley maybe felt the same way. He had a secret fantasy that one day they might be able to do as humans do and live life without a Great and Ineffable Plan looming over their heads. But neither of their sides would approve, much less leave them to it. 

And besides, there was no guarantee that Crowley even loves him in such a way. Surely, he _must_ love -- his attachment to his car, his clothing fads, and the various knick-knacks that he collected over the years, all disproved Aziraphale’s theory that demons couldn’t love at all. But Crowley was open about the things that he liked and loved, in his own Crowley way. The way his expression would soften, how he’d be protective and careful even while trying to maintain his Devil-may-care attitude. It was upfront, at least as much as Crowley would allow without giving Hell a sign of weakness, an attachment that they could exploit should he ever step out of line. Aziraphale admired it in him, and cherished the waves of love that radiated off of him whenever he joined the demon in the Bentley. 

But those feelings weren’t for Aziraphale, or else he’d know. He tried not to sense love around Crowley, because the inevitable rejection would leave him so utterly heartbroken he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Crowley didn’t have the same hesitations as him, he’d just _say_ if he felt love for Aziraphale. He always went fast, always went ahead. (5)

The angel could still take comfort in his presence, however, and as his best friend. Aziraphale was comforted enough with being able to see Crowley, even if they have to pretend otherwise for their superiors. His own warmth is enough to sate him. 

Of course, he wasn’t afraid of losing the demon entirely. He couldn’t very well say that after seeing him breaking down in the pub, the naked relief in his voice and face when Aziraphale appeared clearly said, even to Aziraphale himself, (6) that Crowley cared about him. Aziraphale denied that friendship and everything it entailed, all six thousand years of wonderful connections between them. Seeing him in such a drunken, miserable stupor had broken his heart, as well as filled him with guilt. 

"I lost my best friend," Crowley said miserably. 

Some part of Aziraphale wanted to comfort him, to assure him that he could never lose him.

The horribly pained part of him, the one filled with his own aching sorrow at the bandstand and the one that felt another wound open at Crowley admitting their friendship was over, said, "I'm so sorry to hear that."

It was childish. It was selfish. It was hypocritical, given his own words over and over again, but he couldn't think of anything except how much it hurt to see him like this, how much it hurt to hear that. 

Later, they talked about it. About how Crowley found the bookshop and came to the worst conclusion. 

"You didn't...you didn't think I was calling off our friendship, did you?" Crowley asked. _Like you did_ went unspoken, but Aziraphale flinched all the same.

"I don't know what I thought," Aziraphale said, shoulders rising defensively. "I knew you looked miserable, though."

Crowley levelled him with a look. “Angel, I came back! I apologized! I was planning on driving us to the stars, for something’s sake! I was _grieving_!” There is an odd crack on the last word that Aziraphale didn’t have the strength to consider.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t thinking straight!” 

“Clearly,” he muttered, and they left it alone for the night as they parted ways. 

Even if Aziraphale did sleep, the word Crowley left on and the guilt that came with it would have kept him up all night. In the moment, Aziraphale hadn’t stopped to consider whether he should apologize for his cruel words, or for withholding information about the Antichrist. After all, running away wouldn’t stop the problem -- Earth may be the battlegrounds, but whichever side won wouldn’t just dither there for all of eternity! Eventually, they’d be caught! 

And Heaven was _bound_ to win. Everything that Aziraphale knew all circled around the simple fact that good always surfaces above evil. Even Crowley, the demon who inspired original sin, was good! But be that as it may, Crowley was also a _demon_ , and Heaven wouldn’t hesitate to snuff him out in the war. 

Ergo, the war needed to be stopped. 

But killing a _child_ , even if it was Crowley who suggested it, that was a bit much. There had to be a better solution, and his superiors were bound to find one. The wisdom of the Almighty, after all, surely beat out that of a Principality. 

The drop he felt after the Almighty didn’t pick up, and the Metatron shut down his logic, was enough to leave an aching pit of remorse in his soul. He supposed that it was then that awareness decided to hit him in the face, and then that he wished he could take it all back. 

(5) The thought of Crowley hiding that love, for much the same reasons as Aziraphale, never occurred to him. Nor did the thoughts of Crowley loving things in his own private way seem at all contradictory with his assessment of Crowley as someone who would just tell him if he felt a way about him.   
Aziraphale was considered smart by almost everyone who met him, and while that was broadly true, he was also very stupid. Particularly when it came to Crowley.

(6) Again, just really fucking dense. Pining does that to you.

* * *

They finally get their peace after the switch. That afternoon, at the Ritz, he slowly allowed himself to feel love. And Lord, how he felt it. 

It was so similar to his own. It was deep and bright, tender yet passionate, both loud and quiet in its devotion. It radiated off Crowley, who looked relaxed in ways that he never did, even if he was always slouching, and it sang as their glasses clinked together in a toast. 

Aziraphale tried to be braver, tried to show in his actions, even if the words got caught in his throat, that everything Crowley felt for him was returned in spades. And judging by the looks that the demon gave him, the closeness that they were free to indulge, how their hands would reach for each other in a boldness never seen before, Aziraphale felt like the message was coming through loud and clear. 

_I believe you now,_ he thought fervently, as their faces were mere inches apart. _I believe in us._ Our _side has no consequences for this love. And how could there be? It’s more divine than anything in Heaven._

So when the demon kissed him, for the first time, it felt like Aziraphale was home. His longing was finally quenched, and everything felt right again. 

The next morning, after all the feelings they held back spilled out of them, when the world continued to turn with no consequence of their love, Aziraphale let himself relax. He let go of his previous trepidation, slowly forgiving himself for it. And, privately, he felt proud that he got it right the first time.

Loving Crowley was never bad. It was Holy. It was Pure. It was Good. 

* * *

The days turned into weeks. The world, given a fresh start, continued on as usual. London seemed brighter, and Aziraphale wondered if it was the work of the reset or if it was something only he could see. 

The grey light of an overcast morning shone in through Aziraphale’s windows, illuminating his bedroom. Beside him, Crowley slumbered, one hand loosely gripped in Aziraphale’s. The Principality himself, who had been running his thumb over the knuckles of the demon, finally closed the book he’d been trying, in vain, to finish. He’d only get through a few sentences before glancing down, seeing the peaceful look on Crowley’s face, then get so distracted that he’d need to start over. Reading later was an option, when he didn't have such a tempting sight as Crowley so near. One of the many perks of avoiding the Apocalypse that they earned: plenty of time to read and enjoy his love’s company.

 _Love._ His _love._ He felt a little giddy, being able to think that so freely. He couldn’t resist a smile as he brought Crowley’s hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. Crowley stirred, which only made the light feeling inside of him grow stronger.

“‘S too early to be reading, you loon,” the demon grumbled, but with no heat and plenty of fondness. 

“It _is_ almost noon, my dear,” he replied. 

Crowley didn’t vocalize an answer right away. He instead scooted a little closer, using his free hand to try and push Aziraphale into a lying position. His other hand attempted to pull him down, as well. 

Aziraphale positively beamed at that, obliging willingly. Crowley snuggled (7) into him, burying his face into where his shoulder met his neck. 

“ _Noon_ is for people who didn’t stop Armageddon, angel,” Crowley muttered.

“If we’re being technical, _we_ didn’t really stop Armageddon, either. We were just there to bear witness, lend some support.” Aziraphale ran his hand through Crowley’s hair, playing with the shorter ones at the nape and relishing in the comforted sigh the demon gave. Against him, Crowley went bonelessly limp.

“I know you’re trying to distract me to win this, but it won’t work. We definitely helped.” 

“Mm. I suppose you want me to stop distracting you, then?”

“Absolutely not. Turn out the light, and sleep with -- beside m-- _whatever_. Join me in not being conscious.” 

“My dear, that’s the Sun. I imagine humanity would be _quite_ put out if I turned it off," Aziraphale teased. "And by that logic, what, precisely, we were doing last night?"

And oh, Aziraphale could feel the heat radiating off of Crowley's face to the skin of his neck, as well as the grin growing on the demon's mouth. 

"Y'know, I don't remember much sleeping, now that you mention it.” He nosed right under Aziraphale’s ear. “But hey, if that’s what you’re craving, angel, who am I to deny?”

“Oh, please do. Heaven forbid you deny me,” he said, voice warm with fondness. 

The mouth smiling against Aziraphale's neck began to kiss it, from his pulse point to along his soft jawline. As he squirmed with happy satisfaction and ran his fingers through Crowley's hair, Aziraphale wondered how he went six millennia denying himself this.

And with that thought, Aziraphale gave a hum. A question rested itself upon his tongue. It wasn’t exactly urgent, but if felt great and pressing. He wondered, briefly, whether it was a good idea to bring it up, but then again, Crowley had always been the one to make the bigger steps in their relationship. Aziraphale owed him at least a few in return. 

"Darling?"

"Yeah?" He sounded distracted. Aziraphale put a grounding hand on his bare shoulder. He didn’t mean to alarm him, but Crowley stopped, then propped himself up on an elbow to hover over Aziraphale. “You okay?”

"I am, yes, I was just thinking…what if you and I were to make this official?"

Crowley’s eyes went soft. He swallowed. "This?" He asked, hope clear in his tone. 

"Yes, you and me,” he started to ramble with a familiar nervousness. Not at the consequences from another being, not anymore. Everything in his being told him that this was right. No, he was nervous, in spite of everything Crowley said and did for him, of his response. This question might have worse consequences than Falling. “Crowley, I love you. I love you more than words can say, and I can't imagine a life without you. Anytime I try I just…well, it’s unpleasant, to say the least. Now, I know that we don’t have to put a name on what we have together, that it can be just pure, ineffable love. But I wanted to ask, because if it’s alright with you, I’d like the opportunity to call you my husband, and for you to call me yours. So, would you do me the honour of marry--"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yesss!_ A thousand times yes!" Crowley cut in, then dipped down to kiss Aziraphale. "Oh, my L-- _yes_ , angel, I thought you'd never ask!" He murmured against his lips. 

There was time to plan the wedding. There was also time to resume what Crowley and him had just started moments ago, too. Right now, they just held each other close, kissing languidly and exchanging sweet nothings. One of the many beautiful perks of averting the Apocalypse.

No sides. No responsibilities. No consequences. Only love. 

(7) And no, "snuggled" was not the word Crowley would have chosen. "Strategically holding onto the love of his existence to prevent being woken up again" would be his explanation. Aziraphale knew better now, though. After all, he'd stopped pining. 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is very rambly, but I, like Aziraphale, have a Lotta Feelings™. Thanks for reading!


End file.
